


It's Not a Date

by EttaDreamfeather



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 06:31:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6970036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EttaDreamfeather/pseuds/EttaDreamfeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meetings during break, casual chitchat, bitching about management... What else is there to do at the Resort with your robot bitching buddy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not a Date

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon that Mettaton in Underfell is not in control of the resort and just does whatever the management wants. Or else they’ll dismantle him.
> 
> Also Burgerpants gonna be called Mike here, short for Michael, because it just sounds better and just seems to fit.

On the table is crap. Quite literally crap. He scowls to himself as he tries to pry... _whatever_ the fuck that is off with his fork. Not like he’d be using the fork anyway seeing as all he's given on his breaks to eat is some nasty-tasting shit in a cup.

The managers call it pudding. He just calls it shit.

Whatever, at least it’s enough to get him through the day. He’s sure it’s slowly killing his taste buds, though.

With a glance around, eyeing the steaks and the pasty-looking burgers that litter the tables in front of random monsters, he can’t help but think that’s probably a good thing. The less you can taste of crap the better.

At least he doesn’t have to listen to those girls outside, he’s pretty sure he’d try and claw their eyes out the next time they come in to whine at him. _Without_ buying anything either.

What does he look like, a charity therapist? Fuck.

He’s already got the higher ups on his tail because he ‘doesn’t make enough sales’ during his shifts as it is, he doesn’t need them causing him more trouble.

A chair scrapes against the floor and he whips his head around, ready to snarl and chew out the asshole. He stops short at seeing the human-like robot slumping into the chair across from him.

The guy already looks like shit, as much as he enjoys snarking at people... well, he can give him a pass for being less than quiet with his movements.

“Mike, darling...” the robot tiredly greets him, smile barely there and eye half closed. The left pair of arms is hanging almost uselessly by his side, almost torn off from what he can tell. “What’s on the menu for today?”

He snorts and gives up on the crap, dropping his fork onto his tiny tray. Gestures at the half-eaten shit cup he’s long since given up on.

“Same as always, spotlight, cupa shit and whatever you can scrape off the table,” is what he grunts out, pushing off the table to lean back in his chair. Balances it on its hind legs, wonders if maybe it’ll slide and kill him somehow. Hopes it will.

“Now darling...” the amazing superstar says slowly, mouth curling into a disapproving frown as that tired eye narrow at his ‘meal’, “you know you need to eat something proper that will keep you healthy.”

It’s routine by now and so he simply shrugs and tugs a cig out of his pocket, lighting it up and popping it in his mouth. A paw flicks the cup top, torn off and slightly scuffed.

“Looks healthy,” is all he says after glancing at the nutrition information on it. Not that he’d know, really, but it hardly matters.

The words don’t really seem to stop his table-sharer. He didn’t really expect them to.

Working fingers snap at a waitress who rushes over, back ramrod straight and so eager to please. He laughs and flicks ashes onto the table, directly over the cup.

“Two Starfaits,” Mettaton tells her, glancing at him with another disapproving frown, “and two waters, please.”

“Of course s-sir! Right away, as soon as we can!” she squeaks and scurries away.

He grins wider, sucking in a breath before blowing out smoke in a thin stream. Imagines mouse ears and a tail on her. Might as well be, everyone else around here acts like a bunch of scurrying rats around those higher up.

Well, everyone besides one, he amends as Mettaton settles his right hands in front of him. Might as well do that whole ‘nicety’ thing, the guy was, once again, buying him a meal.

“Looks like the latest shoot took a pisser.”

The robot’s eye widens, flicks down towards his ruined left arms, before he shrugs his right shoulder. Taps his fingers against the table.

“It went about as well as I expected. All four were supposed to be ripped off in the climactic end but the director was fine with only two, they were the only ones that came off in time anyway.”

He wonders if the idea is as disturbing to the star as it is to him. Then again, the guy’s a robot, it’s fine if _his_ arms are ripped off. Metal can be replaced... flesh not so much.

“...Think this one’s gonna be any good?” he decides to try, unsure how to even begin responding to the guy besides ‘fuck that shit’.

“With any luck... There’s much more blood in this one. The people like that quite a lot more than the romantic angle they tried last time.”

Romantic angle. It almost makes him laugh, instead he simply grits his teeth and chews into the cig a bit. Mettaton was fine but the co-actor... man. That girl didn’t know how to act for shit. Her parts were so awkward and high-pitched from nerves.

“Well, maybe if this one sells better they’ll let you work on your album again.”

There it is. That sly, slow smile. He regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth but all he can do is keep chewing the cig and tasting the filling.

“Why, Mike... I’d almost think you were a fan of my personal works,” the star practically _purrs_. Danger alarms go off in his head, so loud he’s surprised no one else can hear it.

“No way,” he hisses, pulling the cig out of his mouth and flicking it onto the table. “I was only meaning-”

“Here’s your Starfaits and water!” the waitress squeaks, almost in his ear, before almost slamming the glasses onto the table in front of them.

His fur puffs a bit as water sloshes onto the table a little, opening his mouth to chew her out but she’s gone before he can even get a word out.

Fast bitch. Scoffing to himself, he picks up the spoon provided and picks at the Starfait.

Mettaton is already digging into his own, self-satisfied smirk curling around the spoon as his mischievous eye watches him.

Smug bastard. He’s stopped trying to figure out how the hell a robot eats. Maybe he converts it to energy. Who knows. Who gives a fuck.

It’s too late now to correct him, he’s already gotten it into that stuck-up mind of his that he’s a _fan_ of the guy. Fuck. As if. He just happens to know the works he does personally. Just like he knows everyone’s.

“How much longer is your break?”

Glances at the clock on the wall, Mettaton face with Mettaton legs for arms. Eugh.

“Five minutes.”

“What a shame!” the dramatic sigh, the way he presses one hand to his face is enough to make his eye twitch. “I’ve barely been able to keep any of your attention to myself the last week!”

“Yeah, well, been workin’ overtime every day. They’ve been on a firin’ spree lately.”

The way he bites his lip should be a crime. Overdramatizing everything is horrible.

“You don’t think they’ll fire _you_ , do you, darling?” Gee, was that worry he heard in the star’s voice? Hah, worried about losing his bitching buddy, probably. Who else would be willing to complain about the management and how things are run?

“You kiddin’ me?” this time he actually does laugh, letting his chair fall back onto all four legs. “ _I’m_ the only bastard who knows how to run everything _and_ is willing to put up with the bullshit. I ain’t worried about getting fired, _they_ should be worried if they do.”

That fucking smile is back and it sets his fur on edge. Something about it is just... _off_.

“I’m so glad to hear that, darling~” he coos, hands reaching out to grab the spoon from him. Before he can snap at him for taking his food the guy swirls his tongue over the Starfait remaining, curling it around the spoon before sliding it into his mouth.

Suddenly it wasn’t that important to get his spoon back.

“I wouldn’t want to lose my dear Mike, after all.”

The spoon is put back into his glass. Empty glass. He grabs the water and downs it, glancing at the time and calculating how quickly he can get back to his station.

While he’s not afraid of being fired he is afraid of a shouting fest. Or a pay cut.

“Yeah. Of course. Gotta have your complaining buddy,” he mutters, standing up from the table and shoving the chair back in. Grabs up his tray and starts away.

An arm curls around his waist and pulls him back, keeps him from moving. Stiffly stares down at the grin upon that face.

“I don’t want to lose my most _favorite_ ,” he says in a correcting tone. “After all, who else could I have such lovely dates with?” A saucy wink is thrown in right after, arm releasing him.

What.

_What the fuck_.

He can barely race away fast enough, slamming the tray against the trash to drop it all in. The tray barely makes it into the washing area as he runs past it.

Breaths come in pants when he’s back at his station, trying to smooth down his fur and stop his tail from flicking this way and that out of control. He takes over for his coworker, signing into the register and staring at the door without seeing it.

What the fuck just happened. When the fuck did the robot start considering them _dates_.

...And why was he wondering when his next break was?


End file.
